


For the sake of my vocabulary

by SonyB89



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley the rent boy, M/M, aziraphale the sugar daddy, homophobic assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 06:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonyB89/pseuds/SonyB89
Summary: Aziraphale comes across a word that is not in his vocabulary... Crowley explains.





	For the sake of my vocabulary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JamieAvenBell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieAvenBell/gifts), [siberianchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/gifts).



> This is entirely siberianchans and JamieAvenBells fault.

**For the sake of my vocabulary**

Crowley sat back down at the table and took a sip of his wine, not noticing that Aziraphale was fidgeting with his napkin.

  
“Crowley?”

“Yes, Angel?”

“What is a **_'rent-boy'_**?”

The fine tablecloth in front of him was decorated with red as the demon spluttered the wine across it.

“Oh dear...”

Crowley coughed, desperately trying to catch his breath.

Aziraphale was trying to soothe him by running a hand along his back, which was _not helping._

“ _Wh-What_?!”

“Oh, are you also unfamiliar with the term? Then nevermind, dear.”

Crowley shook his head vehemently, taking another calming gulp of wine, keeping it down this time.

“Of course I know what a **_'rent-boy'_** is, angel. Why would _you_ want to know?”

The angel fidgeted with his napkin again, glancing ever so often to a table at the windows, where a man in a black suit and slick hair sat, sipping coffee, looking stressed.

“Well, when you were off to use the restroom...”

“You mean when I went to tempt the waiter into...”

“Yes, yes.. I don't want to know about that. Please don't tell me,” the angel sighed.

  
He was uncomfortable and distraught. Crowley did not like it one bit.

“Well, when you were away, the gentleman over there came to me. He was quite rude, actually. But I'm not very familiar with his vocabulary, so I'm not sure if I should be offended or not.”

The _gentleman over there_ suddenly felt uncomfortable, not knowing that the feeling came from the deathly glare of a demon.

“What did he say to you?”, Crowley whispered, his voice almost a hiss, dangerous and very, very calm all of a sudden.

“He said, and I shall quote: _'Listen, you pathetic excuse for a man. I'm trying to enjoy my coffee here, and you and your rent-boy hitting it off over here makes me sick. So bugger off and_ ...' - well the rest is just too indelicate to repeat, really..”

Crowley felt the stem of his wineglass shatter in his palm and mending itself again the same second.

“He called you a _'pathetic excuse for a man'_?”, he growled.

Aziraphale sighed.

“Yes, dear. But I don't mind that. It's the ** _'rent-boy'_** word I don't understand. Is it something offensive? Because if he dared to offend you, I would be very cross indeed.”

Crowley contemplated his options in his head.

He could poison the man. He could visit his flat in the middle of the night and get the mans houseplants to strangle him in his sleep.

He could miracle the precious human bodyparts between his legs into.. well.. something else.

But then, he decided to take a different route. He smiled, wickedly.

“Aziraphale, you really don't know what a _**'rent-boy'**_ is?”, he asked.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I seem to remember Oscar Wilde and his friends mention the term sometimes, but I never quite got it. Why would one 'rent a boy', and for what? It seems to be a lack in my vocabulary.”

Crowley leaned over, his mouth close to Aziraphales ear, and whispered the correct definition of the Oxford Dictionary into it.

The angel turned red as a tomato.

“ _Wh-Wha_... And he thinks _you're_... He thinks I'm... And you're my... That is just _scandalous_!”, he spluttered, grasping for his champagne flute and emptying it.

“Yeah, as if you'd have to pay me for that...”, Crowley mumbled.

“What was that, dear?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale emptied his champagne glass (again, as it had miraculously filled up again) and set aside his napkin.

“Well, I shall give this not very gentle man a piece of my mind then. That was very rude indeed.”

Crowley shook his head and stood up instead.

“Don't mind him, angel. He's entirely beneath you. Let's go for a walk, feed the ducks... That will calm you down.”

Aziraphale thought about it and seemed to remember his angelic nature.  
He nodded.

They were already out the door when Crowley turned around, snapping his fingers. Aziraphale noticed and frowned.

“Crowley?”

“Nothing. Just forgot to get the bill. Miracled the money on the table."

“Oh, thank you dear. That's very kind.”

Little did Aziraphale know that said man, due to too much alcohol and a very bad decision, had the words _'pathetic excuse for a man' t_ attooed in a filthy low quality tattoo shop that night. Right across his forehead.


End file.
